3 Ficlets, This Day is Gone
by Treesh Aradia
Summary: Everything goes, even your fascination with me. Pansy Centric with HP, DP leaning.


Disclaimer: Not mine. Characters belong to JK Rowling.

Summary: Pansy-centric fic. A wedding. Not hers.

A/N: Angsty. Harry, Pansy, Draco.

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**Ficlet 1:**

'_We are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love_.'

Freud

'_We dreamed their arguments, their stricken voices.  
We might embrace, but those two never did,  
Come, so unlike us, to a stiff impasse,  
Burdened in such a way we seemed the lighter-  
Ourselves the haunters, and they, flesh and blood;  
As if, above love's ruinage, we were  
The heaven those two dreamed of, in despair. _**'**

Sylvia Plath

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The wedding went as it did, he married her and I watched, through blurry sight as I tasted the salty tang of my acetic tears.

He is married; he is somebody else's.

He has married her, he is hers.

He is not mine.

And they looked so gorgeous, so fucking damn gorgeous that I wished I didn't love him so much, so I could hate him. I wanted the name, the house with the dragon engraved portico.

I wanted the wedding.

I wanted him.

I would have given my left arm, and right, if he could just love me, if he could just choose me. Oh shit, Harry bloody Potter is beside me. I can smell his wholesome goodness and that musky scent of Gryffindor _pride_. I want to bash his head in, to scream and yell and kick at him as he stands close by, oblivious to my madness and tears.

I say nothing though.

I watch them laugh at some insignificant blather and all I see is white. The white gown, the white shoes, her white smile as she reaches to touch his hair, hair that I used to be able to run pale white hands through. I see the whiteness of my future, how it wanes to a clinically _white_ state. How it becomes, colourless.

And suddenly I feel his fingers through mine. Warm and shocking. This boy whom I hardly knew but knew I hated.

He does not deviate his gaze away from them, but merely turns slightly, towards me. And just like that, we stood juxtaposed, two non-strangers watching a wedding we wished never happened.

As we stood watching them, as our hearts plunged into that empty place that will never really prevent it from getting hurt again, we felt the first drops of rain.

The first pang of _something_.

Profound and infinite, and we knew simultaneously.

The sadness of loss.

The enchanted carriage rides away, along with our hearts, along with our hopes and we were two non-strangers.

Standing in the rain trying to be a somebody for somebody.

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**Ficlet 2:**

I remember the Yule Ball quite clearly. The frosted windows, lavish chandeliers and beautiful, oh so beautiful gowns. I also remember his utter disregard for etiquette, choosing instead to wear his perpetual frown, forging it like a weapon.

His defense mechanism.

I expected as much. But I learnt the art of reading subtlety, his especially, and the slight stiffening of his back, priggishly straight as it already is, and insignificant hitch of his breath, like a small deviation from his breathing pattern divulged the tell tale signs of his affectations. He _was_ affected.

And I came down from the stairs of the common room, embellished in chiffon and gossamer silk, not so worried about obloquy and curdled snipes.

He murmured '_Titania'_ into hair he loved running fingers through, fingers which were lightly trailing the nape of my neck.

We were not conventional; we had no eloquent words, no niceties, no need to pay homage to the other. But what we did have were evanescent touches and body memories of moments that we will lock and hide in our heart of hearts. And one day when it's safe from the outside, summon and relive.

And that was already too much for what we were.

_Slytherin_.

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**Ficlet 3:**

There is nothing here for me. Look, nobody cares for Pansy. Watch the bloody quidditch match everyone, let's all neglect the girl with her heart ripped to shreds and whose life has taken a turn for the worse.

Let's all watch the effing quidditch match.

Who cares about the snitch? Or Harry _bleeding _Potter or, Draco _My-Fault-Not-Yours _Malfoy. Or his goody goody Gryffindor hag bag Ginny Weasle!

Look, Ron Pauper has decided to grow a spine, and move out of his shell behind Potty's shadow.

_"Good save by Ronald Weasley! Now the slytherins have something to cheat for! And Draco the Ferret looking bast- er, sorry Professor-"_

My cue. Let us all look to girl with ailing heart for Ron song cue.

Well, seems that slimy cad has the snitch. Well good for you, you ferret looking bastard!

Time for my aneurysm pills. Or I could kill the scum and his chit and not take pills. I hate snogging. What I hate more is them snogging.

"Watch it Parkinson! Mind where your ratty anorexic limbs, you could have severed my leg."

"I don't give a flying fig, Potter!"

Oooh, seems like aneurysm is contagious, judging by Potter's face. Well good, I do not want to be the only one looking like a sodding fool while they get to prance around and bask in the glory of their glorious, star-crossed love.

This is me not caring. By the way.


End file.
